


a better, stronger land

by Imprise



Series: Second Visions [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Extended Scene, Gen, M/M, Season/Series 04, Series Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9388601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imprise/pseuds/Imprise
Summary: An alternate ending to the Final Problem with a Three Garridebs glow. Involves lengthy conversation and an open, disquieted Sherlock Holmes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wordstrings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstrings/gifts).



> This is another variation on the theme proposed by Wordstrings, which I've been shamelessly using for three days. It feels therefore quite proper for her to have this one, too.  
> I hope this fic smoothes over some of the stranger parts in this episode; it was an interesting experience to try and rewrite canon. I couldn't have let that reunion scene go by.  
> *  
> I've realized I made an incredibly stupid mistake while posting and left out the beginning of the fic. I'm very sorry to everyone who's already read it, it must have made no sense at all.

 

"Seven," Sherlock said coldly. He would not look at John. "Six."

Eurus' voice filled the background, shrill and irritable. Sherlock's hand did not waver. "Five."  
"Stop it!" she snapped. "Sherlock, stop it at once!"  
He swallowed, more certain than ever of his final decision. "Four-"  
The shot rang out through the room with a devastating crack. For a moment Sherlock wondered if his finger had been too quick on the trigger, considered absently how long it should take him to die now. But that was wrong. There was no blood, no pain; the gun was just as taut, ready to fire, his hand crooked properly to shoot. The thoughts flitted through his head with record speed in the few seconds it took for John to fall.  
His body was too close to Sherlock. He must have been moving right before, coming towards him with ill purpose. Sherlock turned, head hot and wild, to see where the bullet should have come from to hit John like that. There was a slot in the wall, he saw, angled just so against his friend's small body; the anger built up inside him, shuddering hard through the inner shell of his white skin. Distantly he knew that it had only been John's final move - a lunging step towards Sherlock, taken upon split-second decision - that had saved his life. He felt the strong urge to shoot the slot, but that would be terrible strategy; he would have to get John out of here alive, no matter how furious he was, and it called for better thinking than this. Sherlock moved quickly to the wall, knowing that from his position on the ground John would be safe at the present moment, and held out the gun to Mycroft. "Disable it."  
There was a moment's hesitation, and then Mycroft nodded. Sherlock had no patience left; he shoved the weapon into his brother's hands. "And the others."  
The clang of metal against metal echoed through the room as Mycroft bent the slot out of shape. It was crude, but Sherlock couldn't have thought of anything more precise than this; it blocked out Eurus' words, which had become a constant trill in their ears after he'd given Mycroft the gun. He would have to trust his brother with their basic safety now; pulse drumming in his neck and ears, he went to John. It had been just about twenty seconds.  
Time slowed down. The world shattered into sharp crystals, John's face staring up at him through the crush like an animal. It took a crazed moment for him to locate the wound and another to press a cold palm to John's cheek.  
"Say you're all right," he heard himself mutter, his hands grazed over John chest and chin, terrified suddenly of touching the squish of a bullet in his shoulder. "John, say you're not hurt." The clanging had stopped; Mycroft was lingering once again in the background, and Sherlock could sense his quiet assessments as they waited for John's voice to waft up from the floor.  
"It's nothing," he was saying. Sherlock could see moisture gathering in the craters of John's eyes, and for a moment was surprised with himself for not having noticed the bruises that had formed there. John gritted his teeth to look up, but Sherlock pressed his head down again as delicately as possible. He worked John's buttons apart with trembling fingers, doing his best to be gentle, and without moving him took a quick look at the injury.  
"Yes," he heard himself say. His voice was hoarse and distorted. "Yes, you're going to be alright."  
John's lips twitched, and Sherlock unthinkingly, mindlessly touched the corner of his mouth with a stuttering thumb. John's expression did not change. "I am a doctor, Sherlock."  
Sherlock did not have the necessary will to talk about this. The room had once again grown very quiet. Eurus, it seemed, was listening now; it was just as well, there could be no doubt now of his feelings for John. There remained only one thing to say, and Sherlock's anger tumbled out from between his hard teeth.  
"You got what you wanted," he told her. "You've seen what I think of him. You've stopped me from dying. But John is still here, which is just as well - " He stared right into Eurus' inexplicable eyes. "If he had died, you would never have left this island alive."  
It was not a jest. John's chin had stiffened under Sherlock's hand where it still lay, and he gripped back with fear. Sherlock had meant every word of what he had said, but Mycroft was quiet, and Eurus was just beginning to speak.  
"This island?" she said dangerously. Sherlock had the sense that she had watched him interact with John in predatory detail. "As thrilling as your offer is, little brother, I think I've gone a ways past this island by now." Her eyes took on a sharp, vulgar glint. "Wouldn't you like John to get some medical attention?"  
"Don't say his name."  
"I can say what I please. I meant to kill him."  
"I still have one bullet." John's jaw tightened impossibly, and Sherlock felt it.  
"Let's not pretend," Eurus said, looking like she really was getting tired of the conversation. "You're not going to kill yourself any longer. You know your friend needs treatment soon, and you won't stop until he gets it. You can't trust that to anyone else. Sherlock, I know you," her voice got delicate. "I know you now. I know what you are with John Watson."  
Mycroft shifted next to him. Sherlock felt every movement in the room with startling acuity. He knew exactly what Eurus was going to offer him and didn't want to take it; he saw John's face turn ashen and couldn't convince himself he shouldn't.  
"The choice stands," Eurus said. "Take John away and get him care. Mycroft, of course, stays."  
"That's not a choice," Sherlock muttered irritably. He could feel himself drawing in for a long conversation. "There are dead ends at every turn. This whole game is dead, because in truth none of this is what you set out to do. You control this place, you could have gotten rid of Mycroft at any time; you've already shot John, you've been in my flat, there's nothing this game has done or could do that you haven't had the chance to do before." They were wasting valuable time for John to be tended to. "You want us all to remain alive for as long as your endgame plays out, and it has not played out. I will not cooperate if John dies. Let him be cared for, and do it now."  
It felt like a weak bargain. Sherlock was guessing, pure and simple; his focus was distorted, he felt John's breath against his thumb. He had no leverage, no plan, and the terrible disadvantage of being only the third cleverest person in the room. Eurus would see through him like water.

She was quiet as Sherlock waited for her. His mind slouched slowly into thought, almost involuntarily, old senses crowding his head in quick succession. He recalled the slide of Eurus' violin under his fingers, Irene Adler's theme rising thinly into the stillness.  _Really look at me. Look at the violin._ The mild heat of his sister's fingers. Her gaze had been magnetic as he'd asked her how she'd left; they had spoken a dead language, Sherlock was always weak for cleverness, she had once made him scream all night and greeted morning with a smile. He could feel John's smallest movements through the stretch of his carpal bone, Eurus' eyelids fluttering in slow motion. He wanted John to disappear. The strings of Eurus' instrument thrummed beautifully in flesh memory, her skin gentle and damp on Sherlock's neck as she choked him. _Look at me._

_"_ You want to be seen, _”_ he said, wonder turning his voice delicate. Someone had entered the room and was shifting his hand off John's face; his surprise intensified as he recognized the white uniform. He relocated his grip to John's hip, feeling blood throb through his femoral artery; he would have to be grounded somehow. His realization had become a physical presence now that John was safe, the truth grown large and violent between them. "You told me so yourself.  _Watch the violin, Sherlock, watch the glass. There is no glass, come here and touch me._ " He paused. " _There is no glass because we are the same_."

Eurus' stare was steady. "We are not the same."

"No, we're not," he amended. "You're so much better than I am, Eurus, so much brighter. You've shown me personally, hurt me and watched me until I grew sterile. Nonexistent glass, a perfect metaphor," he said quietly. "Oh, you're abominably lonely. You only want to be moved."

Mycroft's voice called out from some distant space. "Sherlock, I think you should stop now."

"Quiet, Mycroft." Eurus was looking at him intently. "Sherlock doesn't know what lonely can mean. He didn't know before, either, until I killed Redbeard."

"That sort of means I  _should_ at the moment."

"But you don't remember," Eurus said lightly. "You were  _alone_ , of course. Should've been very odd in that house with Mycroft looking after things. But lonely? Sherlock, it would take more than Victor Trevor for something like _that._ "

The world grew large as a fist in Sherlock's eyes. The memory overwhelmed him suddenly, the little woods turning real and dusky, his body loose as a toddler. Yellowbeard and Redbeard, a plastic sword heavy in his chubby grip, fighting through a solemn afternoon; Victor had never been quiet for long.

"You killed my best friend," he said. The realization tore through him; he felt fractured and desensitized with what had fallen into place. "John -"

"Don't be dull, he's quite safe." Sherlock had taken hold of the white-clad man, angry that he was still there, but Eurus looked bored. "I admit it would've been a nice touch, but unnecessary; he's more useful alive. Besides, it didn't help the last time."

Sherlock wanted to snap at her to stop explaining herself to him, but knew it would be terribly counterproductive. Things felt kaleidoscopic. John's face bloomed on the edges, watching Sherlock anxiously, white but fair and collected. Sherlock was pockmarked with memories, each washing over him in turn: running with Victor, laughing with Victor, Eurus talking to them with a quick smile; running _for_ Victor and the silence after, slouching through the house in the cold. Mycroft's hard orders had been slick over his spine and earline, their relations growing tenser and tenser as Sherlock became a man. He blinked, slowly, the sensations drifting apart like oil; at the center of it all there remained a hard kernel of flesh, the quick intent face of his younger sister.

"I've seen you," he whispered. "I've touched you before."

"You haven't touched me."

"Let me do it again." He showed the screen his thin, bare hands. "I cannot harm you, Eurus. I cannot make you go quiet. But you don't have to stand behind the glass anymore."

"I never _had to._ "

"There is no glass." He raised his hands to his head, getting slowly to his feet. He felt like he was standing off in the desert night, his knuckles eaten pink with cold. "Eurus."

The screen went dark. Sherlock's gaze shot to Mycroft for the barest second, looking to see how he was standing; he caught a glimpse of his brother's eyes, wished for a glimpse of John's.

Eurus was pale and walked with a stutter, her movements far from lithe. She stood to face Sherlock now, the two steps between them their only real distance. She had entered through some door on the left, careful, sliding like a hyena against the walls; Sherlock thought the effect had been breathtaking.

"Look how brilliant you are," he murmured. "So bright, so painfully isolated. All alone in the sky." He knew from Eurus' mouth-tremor that this smaller prediction had been right, which was worth the exhausting monologue. "I can bring you home, Eurus." The words settled like lead in his throat and breastbone. "I'm just an idiot but I can bring you home."

Her chin quivered. "It's too late."

Sherlock took a step forward. "No, it isn't. It's not too late." His hand had found her shoulder. "It's never too late."

She closed her eyes. "No one can hear me. I know no one ever will."

Her head was on Sherlock's chest. He slid one hand down to her waist and held her neck fast with the other. "I've got you now."

The shot rocked Eurus in his arms, her jaw digging into his collarbones with the force of the bullet. John jerked in place with shock. Blood trickled down onto Sherlock's fingers, warm and terrible; he would not stop holding her.

Mycroft's face was taut, the gun dangling from his hand almost innocuous. They stood in silence until he lay the weapon on the floor, almost like an afterthought. "You should let go of her now."

"Don't tell me what to do."

Mycroft tipped his head at him. Sherlock knew he was right, but something stopped him from doing as he should; it felt obscene, unthinkable to simply stretch her out like a child. He didn't want to place her next to John, and didn't want her head to rest on the floor. Mycroft's chin tightened. He walked slowly in his untried steps to the exit Eurus had used; his right hand was trailing the wall, as quiet and deliberate as Eurus had been in her movements only minutes before.

"You killed her." John's voice was raw.

"She couldn't have stayed here." Mycroft's words rang back to them from the still corridor. "There was nowhere on Earth she could have gone."

"She was changing!"

"She was dangerous," Sherlock said finally, knowing Mycroft was too far away to hear them now. He still held Eurus' mouth pinned to him by her neck; his shirt had become wet with saliva and blood. "She shot you."

"That was before you gave her a promise," John said, looking like he would very much like to rub a hand over his face, forcefully, taking off much of his skin. 

"John." Sherlock had known Mycroft would do this in the small moment they'd shared, with his brother's eyes unfathomably distant. Mycroft was cold and puerile and started wars for the British government; he had kept his own sister stashed away on this small rock for decades. Eurus' death had been nothing short of mercy. "She killed five people in the few hours we've been here. She was the only part of Moriarty that remained."

"She wasn't a part of Moriarty," John said incredulously. "She wasn't a tool, the way Mycroft thought her to be. She was human."

"Of course she wasn't a tool." Sherlock felt angry with such an assertion when his sister's skin was still clinging to his fingers. "She was beautiful, as wonderful as a tiger. Of course she was nothing but what she had made herself out to be."

"That's not what you said."

"Beautiful and terrible are not mutually exclusive." Sherlock's voice had grown terrible itself. "Some things have to be done."

John looked at him, forehead wrinkling with emotion. It seemed that the aide had fled upon Eurus' death, for which act Sherlock could not blame him. He was now alone in the cool room with John and his dead sister, whose blood was pooling onto the white floor like tar. It was such a dire waste. Sherlock's throat hurt at having her had shot in the head, but it wouldn't have been a quick death otherwise.

"Sherlock," John muttered in sudden alarm, "the girl on the plane-"

Sherlock shook his head. His sister's hair tickled his chin as he did so. "Her calls stopped once Eurus started talking to me. I thought you'd get the hint."

John's brow furrowed. "She wasn't real?"

"She was as real as Eurus herself was." Sherlock looked forlorn.

John pressed his lips together. "Sherlock, let her down."

He was surprised. "Why?"

"It's time to let her go. Put her down."

"I did my best, John." He knew he must seem absurdly emotional, the night closing down around him and his myriad outbursts, his demonstrations of love.

"She can come lie here with me."

That was what Sherlock did not want. As much as he had admired Eurus, he could not forgive her for hurting John Watson. "I couldn't have lost you."

John's response was swallowed by Mycroft's reappearance, a few guards with him carrying a stretcher. He motioned for Sherlock to place Eurus on the white cotton. The woman's fingers had tightened on his clothes with death; painstakingly he freed them, laying her out as carefully as possible. He didn't know why this had suddenly become so different, or his actions so tender. It bothered him.

"Take her away," Mycroft muttered to the guards. "And bring another stretcher afterwards." 

They obeyed without question. Sherlock wondered where she would be buried, absently, before letting the event wash away in the knowledge that now he would have to face John once again.

He knelt. John considered him for a moment, then reached out his good arm to touch Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock leaned into him almost instinctively, the contact pulling him down like sand.

"I'm never going to forget it," he told John. "It will never have been easy for me. Not for Mycroft, either."

John's eyes flickered to the man standing behind them. "It's over now." The words seemed to have been meant for both brothers, but Mycroft didn't look like he was listening.

"It's time to go home, Sherlock," John said finally. "Back to Baker Street."

"I know," he answered. His fingers moved to wrap around John's where they burned through his torso, feeling the coarse aliveness cradle his wrist and skin where they touched. Things had gone still again. "I know."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared."
> 
> Sherlock Holmes in His Last Bow, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.


End file.
